Dudebro Teaches Margo

     I despised Dudebro, which is exactly why Heinrich invited him.  Dumb boy with hair product and that stupid tribal tattoo (one time I lost my manners and scoffed, “Nice ink! If you had a puka-shell necklace, we could pretend it was 1997 again!”  Oh boy, was I punished for that).  If I’d met him in public, I wouldn’t have given him the time of day.  I can’t stand meatheads. 

      I couldn’t have anticipated it in a million years, but Dudebro actually had something to teach me: hatefucking. 

       I was on my back on the dining table.  Dudebro was holding my ankles (above the shackle) and pounding into me, like a piston.  He had his stupid Ray-bans on his stupid hair.  My humiliation was complete. 

       I was coming.  Hard.  Again. 

       Heinrich was standing over me, with my hair wrapped in his fist.  He’s always been big on the hair-pulling, has Heinrich–I think I appropriated that technique from him.  When I closed my eyes, he slapped my face.  He was wearing his gloves.  The leather smelled good.

        “Look at me.  You are not going anywhere,” he said. He pronounced going as go-ink.  He was leaning over me and his face was illuminated from behind by the overhead lamp hanging from the ceiling.  I understood what he meant.  A lot of subs–hell, people in general–get lost in their orgasms.  They go away.  Not necessarily a bad thing, but not always desirable, if one is being controlled. 

         “I’m gonna come,” I gasped.

          Dudebro started laughing and pumped me harder.

          “But Red, I thought that you hated me!  I thought that you hated me, Red!”

            “Ja, I thought she hated you!” said Heinrich, smiling now. 

           “Do you hate my dick, Red?” asked Dudebro.

            “CAN I COME PLEASE?”

            “I am bored with the bad grammar,” Heinrich said, and stuck his fingers into my mouth.  All the way to the back, just around the gag reflex.  My eyes started to tear up. There was leather in my mouth and in my nose and I was being held at both ends, and two men over me, and that was all there was to it. 

           “Watch her go!  Too bad you hate this dick, right, Red?”

           You know that feeling when you stand in the surf in the ocean, and the wave sucks the sand over your feet and ankles…?  Emotionally, it felt like that.  Pulled away.  Out of control. 



Abduction Weekend Continued

    Sorry, Party People.  Heinrich put the hatchet in most of my Abduction Weekend updates.  He says he wouldn’t mind if I was writing exclusively about himself, but there were three other gentlemen involved in addition to the people whose house and property he utilized for the event.  

      I can share a concise overview of the festivities….just not the gory details.  So it is with great pleasure that I write what I can about the weekend of debauchery, mayhem, and a million blowjobs.

       They took me out of the closet and stood around the room while Heinrich conducted an intake interview.  He was in fine form–when I tried to get chummy with him, he acted like he didn’t even know me.  As if we were not friends and had no history together.

       I was made to immerse myself up to my neck in a large stainless steel sink filled with cold water.  They threw in a bucket of ice after a few minutes.  It was very difficult to concentrate on my answers with my nose running and ice cubes bouncing merrily upon the surface of the water.  Heinrich asked me mindfuck questions, such as “How obedient do you think you are?”

       I was given rules.  One rule was no swearing.  Another rule was no flinching. 

       Overall, I did quite well on the first rule.  My compliance with the second rule was mediocre, I regret to report.  It did improve markedly over time, however.

       I was affixed with a heavy metal shackle on my left ankle.  I have no idea where he procured it, but let me tell you, he wasn’t fooling around.  It was heavy, it closed with a masterlock, and there was twelve feet of chain attached to it.  It looked a bit like this:

        Real, heavy chain.  Not the crap you buy at the hardware store to hang your potted plants.  It weighed several pounds and was smooth-plated so that it didn’t scratch the floors or furniture.  I wore the shackle and the chain every second I was there.  It was either held by a man or affixed to something heavy and/or permanent the entire time.  I was also charged with keeping it clean, so that the links didn’t drag dirt inside when I was eventually let into the main house were the real human beings were.  Yeah, I was constantly washing that chain and clanking around in it like Marley’s ghost.  It made a sore by the end of the weekend.

       I was also made to wear a length of chain around my neck, which was also locked with a padlock.  This was very uncomfortable and I had to sleep in it the first night I was there.  My hair would get caught in it and it would pinch my skin.  Dudebro said that I could get out of the collar if I found the key to the lock, which he hid somewhere in the studio I was being kept.  Heinrich took out his stopwatch and timed my frantic search for the key.  They watched it indoors on the security camera.  I hear that they found it very amusing.  It took me eighty-eight minutes to find that key.  And you know that meant I had to endure eighty-eight of something.   Oh Heinrich, you are truly the Frederick Taylor of pain and suffering. 

     Incidentally, the shackle/chain/collar combo were the only things I was allowed to wear all weekend, except for the sneakers I was permitted for the execution of hard manual labor.  I was made to dig a great big hole in which I became convinced that I was going to be buried alive in a crate.  They did not bury me alive, but they did make me fill in the hole after I digged it.  I will add that I was humiliated and terrorized with the garden hose throughout the weekend.  

       I was also made to drag a bunch of sheet rock out of the bottom of an empty swimming pool.  Heinrich timed that, too. My puny-ness and ineptitude was a constant source of speculation and entertainment.  I mean, they watched me like they’d never seen a girl dig a hole before.  Probably because they hadn’t.  Ha, ha. 

     Dudebro harassed me constantly and the other men got a kick out of basically tormenting me.  Some of it was on the level of kids playing keep-away with the nerd’s hat or snapping the girl’s brastrap, which sounds harmless enough except that it became exhausting and frustrating after a while.  

       Yes, I cried.  My tears were met with indifference or ridicule. 

       One of the men, Mr. White, was pretty soft.  I guess he was the Good Cop in the routine.  He would feed me. 

        Oh yeah–the first day I was there, I had to drink out of a bucket.  Without using my hands.  That was fun. *sarcasm*

         The owners of the house owned a huge male weimerainer dog that I was made to shampoo and groom after it had been running in the fields all day.  Heinrich was big on not tracking dirt in the house.  Usually I would be delighted to interact with a beautiful dog like that, but the men stood around and observed me silently the entire time.  This had the effect of making me very paranoid (which I’m sure was the point).  I suddenly became fearful that they might ask me to mess with the dog.  Relax, of course they didn’t, and I would not have done it if they did, but I was still worried.  I did not know any of the men except for Heinrich.  They could have been complete pervs, for all I knew.  

         The dog could do tricks.  Roll over, beg, speak, turn in a circle. Mr. White thought it would be fun to make me do tricks.  I had to compete with the dog to do the tricks faster.  It goes without saying that I always lost, because I am clumsy and the dog was not.

       They made me eat a piece of bacon that I thought was a dog treat.  I did not want to eat it, but I did.  It was, in fact, human food.

       Heinrich was the only sadist in the bunch. The others just were not very interested in causing me pain–they were more into playing mean jokes on me, entertainment, and sex.  Heinrich made me suffer.  He told me he would, and he did.  

         I have to hand it to him.  He followed through.  No mercy.  The only time he gave me a pass on anything is when I brought him his beer in the bottle instead of pouring it into a glass first. When he said I earned eighty-eight, he administered eighty-eight.  He was hard on me, and did sick shit like make me choose between options that I both thoroughly despised.  For example, I absolutely cannot stand nipple clamps, and the only man I ever let hurt my breasts was the Surgeon.  I just can’t cope with that sensation.  

          Well, it was seven minutes of the clover clamps, or else I had to sleep in the closet.  Sitting up in the closet.   While he watched me on the security camera (did I mention that I had no privacy the entire weekend?  NONE!).  

           I hated the options and I hated being made to participate in my own oppression, but what could I do?  I took the clamps and it absolutely killed me.  I do not lie when I tell you that I would rather take bastinado than clover clamps.  I normally won’t even let men touch me there, even boyfriends. 

             I actually screamed when he took them off.  He was standing behind me with his arm wrapped around me, sort of like a headlock, and his voice was in my ear.  I could see his face in the mirror, and he was smiling.  I’ll never forget it.  I could feel his hard on through his pants.  I was crying and he counted slowly in German backwards from ten and then took the clamps off and I thought the pain was going to kill me.  Stars, boy, I saw stars.

            Then he put me on top of the desk.  The desk can a mechanical clamp attached to it, like this:

         He put my hair in the clamp so that I couldn’t move my head or get up.  

           Then he fucked my brains out while I was crying and blowing snot bubbles and generally being pathetic.  Nobody’s done that to me since the Surgeon, either.  

           It was one of the hottest experiences of my life. 

           He didn’t even take off his pants.  He just shrugged off his suspenders and opened his pants.  He was wearing his boots, man, and he looked fucking beautiful.  Then he put his hand in my mouth and laughed at me.

            My mind was so blown that I forgot to ask permission to climax.  Can you believe that?  I never forget.  And you better believe I was punished for that, too.

            I need a cigarette and a cold shower just writing that.  God, I try not to get pornographic on my blog and keep everything rated “R”, but I just couldn’t resist the description.

           When he finished with me (we were alone), he threw me to the wolves.  

          It was a long night.

          And oh yeah–on the last night we were there, the guys played cards and it was my job to serve drinks and empty ashtrays.  I spent a lot of time serving them when I was finally let inside the house.  And before we left, I had to clean the house and change the linens so that the house was perfect for when the owners came home.   

         After three days, they dropped me off at my apartment in one piece.  I waddled up the stairs and collapsed.  I couldn’t wear jeans or tight pants for a week, but it was totally worth it.

        Memories to last a lifetime.  Gawd I’m lucky. 

For the One Path of My Flight is Direct Through the Bones of the Living

    I’ve been forwarding my Abduction Weekend series drafts to Heinrich for approval before I post them.  Most are heavily edited, but he is still wary–understandably–about posting some of it online.  Naturally, I want to respect everyone’s privacy, so I’m re-tooling a few parts. 

     In the meantime, here is an excerpt from the poem I was forced to memorize and recite upon request…often in extremely distracting circumstances.  Heinrich tells me that I am fortunate, because he wanted me to recite Goethe.  There is no way I could have managed that; my German is too rusty now. 

      He knew that I like birds, and he wanted me to better understand the mindset of himself and the men who had me in the following days.  It is interesting that he did not want me to meditate upon my own predicament but instead focus on his/their experience. 

From Hawk Roosting, by Ted Hughes 

My feet are locked upon the rough bark. 
It took the whole of Creation
To produce my foot, my each feather:
Now I hold Creation in my foot

Or fly up, and revolve it all slowly –
I kill where I please because it is all mine.
There is no sophistry in my body:
My manners are tearing off heads –

The allotment of death.
For the one path of my flight is direct
Through the bones of the living.
No arguments assert my right:

The sun is behind me.
Nothing has changed since I began.
My eye has permitted no change.
I am going to keep things like this.

And also:

Schon war ich auch, und das war mein Verdeben.
(Fair I was also, and that was my ruin.) 
                                    –von Goethe 

Abduction Weekend II: Quality Time with a Closet Creepy-Crawly

   I sensed when we were left the road and started to approach the house because the vibrations of the van changed after it left the blacktop.  We drove first onto dirt, and then onto what could only be gravel.  I recognized the gravel because it made a distinct crunching noise that I could hear even over the sound coming from my headphones.  I’d once spent the summer with my ex–the truly bad restraining-order psycho–and his family in East Hampton.  His folks had a gravel driveway.  I’ve never forgotten the noise tires make on it. 

      The van crunched to a halt.  The driver killed the engine.  The headphones were yanked off my head and the heart rate monitor was taken off of my hand.

      “Carry her or make her walk?”  I heard UPS guy ask.  

       “Carry.  With two of us, we’ll make short work of it.  Her legs are going to be asleep.  You go up ahead.  See you at the box.”

        The WHAT?  I wondered.

         The sound of van doors opening.  Then someone put a second dark bag on my head.  I didn’t like that, not one bit.  It was very hot and stuffy in the bag, and I was hoping for some fresh air.  Two bags was going to be absolutely miserable. 

        “We’re going to carry you.  Don’t resist,” said a voice close to my ear.  That was the stranger waiting in the van.  The one with the goatee.  

          One of them grabbed my ankles and the other–young UPS guy–grabbed me underneath my armpits.  They lifted me out of the van and once my weight was off the floor, I immediately noticed that it was true: my lower legs, and most of my arms, were pretty numb.  There was no pain, no tell-tale sting of nerve damage, but they were definitely asleep.  It was the restraints.  Too tight, for too long.  

       I couldn’t see anything through the bags.  I had no idea where I was.  I couldn’t even tell how warm it was outside or if the air was humid–nothing.  

      They moved me at a pretty good clip.  I was surprised–it’s difficult to move dead weight.  It felt like they carried me quite a way, but I can’t be sure.  

      Indoors…they had carried me indoors.  Someplace with a concrete floor, like a garage.  

      My ankles were released and UPS guy hauled me up into a standing position.

      “Stand up!” he said.

      I tried to put my weight on my feet.  My legs buckled immediately. 

      “Whatever, I’ve got her.  Move her hands around to the front,” I heard him say.

       The nylon winch ties were quickly released from my torso and I felt my arms flop down towards the floor like dead animals.  Then: the coldness, followed by burning as the blood rushed in.  

       Someone grabbed my right wrist.  Then, the unmistakable feel and sound of handcuffs.  First the right wrist, then the left.  In front of my body.  

        The nylon winch ties were taken off of my legs.  Now I was unrestrained except for the handcuffs.

       UPS guy picked me up off the ground and bundled me forward a few feet into what felt like….

       ….a closet…?!

        When he released me, I crumbled to the ground immediately.  Fortunately, I managed to sit straight down onto my ass, into a crouching position, with my legs bent at the knee in front of me.  When I tried to move my arms backward, my elbows knocked into a corner.  

       I felt a door closing shut–the door I’d just moved through.  It made a puff of air.

      My arms and legs were making that awful pins-and-needles waking-up sensation, but I could move them around now.  I reached up and snatched the bags off of my head. 

      Yeah, I was inside of a closet, all right.  It was dark inside.  The only light was through a crack on the side of the door that had hinges.  

       “It’s ready,” I heard one of the men say from outside.

      Someone passed in front of the doorcrack, blocking it out for a second.  And then: the loud, frightening noise of an electric screwdriver:

         I screamed a little bit.  It scared me.  I’ll admit it.  The closet door vibrated and rattled. 

        They were screwing the door shut.  They were locking me up in the closet.  

      The squeal of the drill, much closer to my head this time.  Whoever was wielding it was putting in a screw at about the same height as my head.  I yelped again and scooted my body away from the door.  

       And then it was done.  It had only taken a minute.  

      I heard the clank of something heavy and metallic shift around–maybe a tool box.  Someone said something I couldn’t make out.  Someone else laughed.  I heard running water in a faucet and metal sink.  Then, the sound of retreating footsteps.

       They’d left the building, whatever it was.  I sensed that they were gone.

       They’d left me in the closet.  

        I positioned my body so that my back was opposite the door.  I put my feet against the door and pushed with all my might (which wasn’t much–my legs were returning to normal, but they still felt warm and weak).

        The door didn’t budge.  Not even a tiny bit.

        I drew my knees back and kicked at it.  Pretty feeble. 


       “Hello?” I called out.  “Uh, hello?  Hello hello?”


       “Hello?  How long am I going to be in here?”


       I looked up and around me, trying to survey my surroundings.  It was extremely dark in the closet.  My eyes had adjusted all they were going to adjust, and I still couldn’t make anything out.

      I craned my neck up.  How tall was this closet?

      And there, in the corner, I saw it: a tiny red light, glowing steadily. Unflickering.

       I thought exactly what YOU would have thought in that situation, good reader!  I thought: That looks just like the recording light in a video camera.

       “Oh no, come ON!” I spat.  I was frustrated and irritated.  I’d said NO CAMERAS.  That was one of my non-negotiable hard limits.  No pictures, no video, no audio recordings!

        I started moving my feet around, trying to determine the size of the closet.  It was not large.  It was about the size of a small supply closet.  The size of the closet in my bedroom at home.

       My foot bumped against something and made it move.  Made it roll. 

      “Whaaa?”  I said, and kicked at it again.

       Something small and hard.  Plastic or metal.

       I fumbled in the dark and grabbed it.

       A pen-light.  They’d left me with a flashlight.

       I twisted it on.  A yellow beam of light cut through the darkness.  I looked around me feverishly. 

       Yup–my perceptions were right.  I was in a small, bare closet with a concrete floor.  There was really nothing else to say about it.

       I pointed the flashlight up at the little red light I’d seen in the corner.  I started to curse and swear in a most unladylike fashion.  Cause it was a camera.  A damn security camera, set up there in the corner, looking down at me.  

       I looked up at the camera and shot it the bird.  

       “Hey, come on, guys–this isn’t funny!  I said no cameras!  You need to come get this thing and take it away right now!”

         It was then that I noticed something right beside the camera.

        An enormous spider…!

        I am not talking your friendly neighborhood tarantula here.  I mean an Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom monster with a legspan at least as large as a dessert saucer.  And when I moved the flashlight across it, I saw it move. 

        You can imagine my reaction, gentle reader, but I know that you want me to describe it, so I will: I freaked out.  I screamed.  Yes, I screamed, just like a scared little girl, and I threw up my arms in front of my face, dropping the flashlight, because I was suddenly sure that the spider was going to launch itself down upon me from the heights of the closet corner like the arachnid hand of a punishing God, probably to crawl all over me and frighten me even more.  With delight, I have no doubt–the spider would want to do this with delight.   The entire time the spider would be crawling all over me, it would be laughing inside of its malevolent spider-brain.

       (Yeah, I know that doesn’t make sense.  No spider would want to do that.  But so what.  How many of our fears are rational?)

      When I didn’t feel the spider land upon me, I suddenly became worried that it was crawling toward me instead, and I reached around me for the flashlight.  I needed to get onto my feet!  I needed to be prepared to stomp it when it attacked!

       I pulled myself up, knocking my head against a closet wall in the process, and anxiously focused the light by the video camera, where I’d last seen the spider.

       The ugly bastard was still there.  Right where I left him.

       Waiiiiiit…..wait a minute…!  

       That spider didn’t look like it had moved at all.

       I raised my hand over my face to protect it from a spider attack and stood up on my tiptoes, peering at the spider through my fingers.

        That spider was a rubber Halloween prop!  It was fake!  Upon closer inspection, it didn’t look remotely real–not even in the dark.

        I tittered nervous laughter.  “Oh man!  That is not okay,” I said, to no one in particular.  

       I sat back down in the corner and trained the light on the spider.  I knew it was fake, but I couldn’t stop looking at it.  I thought that if I did, maybe when I moved the light back to it, it wouldn’t be there anymore.  If I took my eyes off of it, it would magically come to life and commence its nefarious reasons for being.  

       The spider was fake.  I told myself that the camera had to be fake, too.  


        I don’t know how long they left me in there.  Probably long enough to have a late lunch.
        Then it was time for the intake interview.  

Abduction Weekend Part I: Delivered

         As it happened, I ended up being snatched off of the street, after all.  

     I never saw them coming.  Three weeks of advance notice, three long conversations with Heinrich in which we addressed major logistical concerns (did I intend to resist?  Was my living room large enough to accommodate 3-5 men and their gear? What would I say to the landlord or a neighbor in the event that we were interrupted?), and I still never saw them coming.

      Heinrich & Co. were supposed to let themselves in to my apartment with a spare key I’d provided.  That was the plan.  They knew when I was going to be home, and I knew that they were supposed to drop in on me sometime that weekend…but I didn’t know when, and the anticipation was killing me.  I was walking on pins and needles around my apartment, freezing whenever I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs or unfamiliar male voices in the hallway.  Sleep was thin and uneasy.  I kept thinking that I heard the sound of the key in the lock…the deadbolt pulling back. 

      In the end, they took me by surprise by pretending to be UPS.  Yes, you read that correctly.  I am embarrassed to report that they needed no sophisticated or complex trickery in order to catch me.  They simply called to say that they were trying to deliver a package to me downstairs in my apartment building. 

     My dumb ass fell for it.  For what it’s worth, I was, in fact, expecting a package that day from Amazon (PowerEdge Pet Hard Floor Vacuum!  Works GREAT!  Miss Margo heartily recommends this product!). 

     I was not expecting an ambush downstairs from the UPS man.  So when I got a call for my apartment number, I said that I’d be right down, donned flip flops…

      …and delivered myself.  They would have gotten more hassle if they tried to order Chinese food. The van was perhaps seven feet away from my apartment building’s door, parked at the curb.  Incredibly, I didn’t even notice it. I was focused on the UPS guy standing in front of it, just outside my door.  

       He was young and I noticed a bit of tattoo on his arm that wasn’t covered by his sleeve.  He was wearing a brown UPS shirt and a brown UPS hat and carrying a big cardboard box with labels on it.  Nothing struck me as amiss. 

        “(Apartment #)?” asked UPS guy.  “You have ID to sign for this?”

          “Sure thing,” I said, walking right up to him. I opened my purse and started rummaging around in it for my wallet.  Rummage rummage rummage.

        “Hey, Miss Margo,” someone said.

         I looked up to see who was calling me, and looked up into the open back doors of a minivan.  

          There was a man in there.  A man I did not recognize–a white guy with sunglasses on.  He had salt-and-pepper hair and a goatee. He was smiling.

        “Long time no see, Miss Margo!  How’ve you been?” asked the  dude.

          Who was this guy?  How’d he know my name?  I am notoriously bad at recognizing faces, so I stood there for a second, racking my brain, trying to place him.  Was this someone from school I was supposed to know?

        Then I was grabbed at the waist, lifted, and literally tossed into the back of the van–specifically, into the arms of the stranger who’d called my name.  He embraced me as if we were friends.  

         I didn’t scream. The loudest sound was the noisy metal klang my shinbone made when it knocked against the back bumper.  That left a huge bruise which endured for ten days.  

         I remember thinking two things: Ow, my shin! and Who the fuck IS this person? 

          The van doors slammed shut behind me.  It was dark.  I looked at the windows and saw roll-down sunscreens.  With that, finally, came the dawn of comprehension. 

          “Oh fuck!” I swore, mostly to myself.  Aghast at my gullibility.  “I can’t believe I fell for that!”

           The Stranger was already passing me down onto the floor of the van.  Onto my stomach.  It was already too late to resist in any meaningful fashion, even if I’d wanted to.  He’d climbed on top of my back and pinned my shoulders with his knees.  His weight pressed the wind out of me.  It hurt.  

             Then I felt someone holding my legs…and then, a sharp, violent bind just above my knees.

           I tried to say It’s okay, I give up, but I couldn’t get enough air.

          Someone put a soft black bag over my head.

          “Okay, lift her up,” said a voice.  Was that UPS guy?  “Get her purse.”

            Then: sudden restraint around my torso, just below my breasts, tying my arms tightly against my body.

            I didn’t realize it until they took the bag off of my head, but I’d been restrained with common adjustable nylon winch straps with buckles–the types of straps used to secure kyaks and luggage to the roofs of cars, for example.  Cheap all-purpose restraints.  Heck, I have four of them in my Bag o’ Swag underneath my bed.  

          In my mind, I’d pictured the van speeding off into the night, like in a movie.  But it was the middle of the afternoon, and the guys were in no hurry.

       “It’s okay, it’s okay,” I choked out.   The restraints were very tight.  They were hurting me.

          They didn’t say anything to me.  Maybe they didn’t even hear me.  I was back on my stomach with my check pressed into the floor and the strange van guy’s weight on my back again–not quite as heavy this time, but still very forceful.  I couldn’t see anything.  

          “Here’s the blanket,” said UPS guy, and I felt my lower half being draped in fabric.  “I’ll be right back with her stuff.  Does anyone else need to come up with me to use the bathroom?  No?  Okay, I’ll be back in a sec.”

           I heard the van door open again.

           UPS guy apparently let himself into my building and ran up to my apartment, where he fetched the weekend-overnight bag that I’d left at the agreed-upon place right outside my bedroom door.  He locked the door behind him when he left and came back to the van.

          “Ready,” he said, and burst into laughter. Then: “We totally over-prepared for that.  Did you see her face when you called her name?”

            The engine started.  It made the metal floor underneath me humm.  I felt it through the bag on my head.

          Wait, I thought to myself.  Who’s the driver?

          I perked up, trying to catch voices, but the men were not talking.  How many of them were there?  Three, at least.  But where was Heinrich?  I hadn’t heard his voice!

          What if he’s not here?  What if you’ve been caught by the WRONG GROUP OF PEOPLE?

           No, that couldn’t be right–they had my housekeys and knew my name.  It had to be the right bunch.

        They adjusted the straps tied around me–made them a little looser–and put on two more.  Then someone attached a fingertip heart-rate and blood-oxygen saturation monitor to the pointer finger of my left hand.  Very prudent, a very prudent thing to do.  That was the hand of Heinrich for sure, I told myself.  Because you wouldn’t want to take your captive out of town, get the bag off of her head, and then realize you’d, say, suffocated her to death inadvertently on the drive over.  

         We went for a long drive.  I’m not sure how long it took–about two hours, I’d reckon, but I could be wrong about that.  I know that the last part was definitely over an hour because someone put headphones over the bag on my head and turned up the radio.  At first it was Spanish-Latino pop music, which was a torture which almost prompted me to complain, but then one of them must have interceded on my behalf and changed it to NPR.  

       What a fascinating life I lead.  I couldn’t make some of this shit up if I tried.  

       They took me out to a nice house…a house in the country.  You know the one: the one with a million dogs and cats on it (jesus, just KIDDING! lol).  

       Things got very tough for me very quickly. 

       NEXT: locked in a closet with creepy-crawlies, meeting the Boss, interviewed in icewater, and…a poetry recital! 

       It’s ruining a bit of the fun for next time, but I’ll post this here anyway…

       I was given a piece of poetry to memorize, which I then had to recite upon request, often under extremely, ahh, distracting circumstances.  When I recited it incorrectly, I was punished  “reminded.”  LOL still can’t believe he did that to me.  But what a great idea!

Abduction Weekend Story Sneak Preview: Margo Digs a Hole

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(Abduction Weekend was waaaay too busy to capture in a single blog post.  It’ll have to be a series.  There’s only so much I can present without getting pornographic, but since I keep my blog Rated R, I’ll do my best.  The weird stuff is the most fun, anyway.  You can get sex anywhere, right?

Anyway, this was one of the weekend highlights (in retrospect).  The first morning I was there, they had me dig a hole that I became convinced I was going to be buried alive in as some sort of ‘test.’  I was paranoid because they messed with my mind a lot.  Well, they didn’t put me in a crate in the hole…but they did make me fill it back in.  It took the entire morning.  Quite an attitude adjustment.  Dudebro rode me like a donkey the entire time.)      

Shackle left a sore.  I put neosporin and a band-aid on it.

       I walked with them to the edge of the lawn, where the grass gave way to what looked like a sizable vegetable and flower garden.  Heinrich had me walk ahead of them, which struck me as odd until I realized that it would afford them greater surveillance over me.  

      The dew was off the grass, but it was still chilly outside.  My skin was broken out in gooseflesh.  Otherwise, it was a beautiful late morning, sunny and clear.  

      “Halt.  Stand there,” Heinrich said when I reached the edge of the grass.  

        There was a tree about ten feet to my left.  I don’t know what kind; the leaves weren’t out yet.  Besides the tree was a wooden  crate-like structure with a hinged lid and a black plastic tube that looked like a large vacuum-cleaner attachment.  

        I stared at that wooden crate, contemplating it with foreboding.  

       That crate gave me the creeps.

       “Eyes front!”  screamed the loathed Dudebro.  I could hear the smile in his voice.  A second later, something whacked against the back of my head and fell to the ground by my feet.  I sneaked a glance down, while keeping my head straight.

        Gardening gloves. 

        To my left, Heinrich was looping the end of the chain around the trunk of the tree.  He locked it shut with a padlock, checked it, and then walked back over to me.

       “Be sure to wear those gloves,” he gestured at where they lay on the ground.  I bent and picked them up.  “I don’t want to look at your blistered, scraped-up hands working around my supper later.  Have me loose my appetite.”

       Dudebro came up from behind me.  He was carrying a round point gardening shovel with a long wooden handle, which he trust into my hands.  “Have fun with it!”

       “What?” I said.  Confused.

        Heinrich fished his stopwatch out of his pocket.  “Make for us a hole.”

       “A hole?  Where?”

       “Here.  In the dirt right in front of us.”

       “How big?”

        “We’ll tell you when it’s the right size.”

        My heart sank.

        I walked a few feet forward into the dirt, dragging my chain behind me.  The shovel was sort of heavy.  I put the metal blade against the earth, sank it in with help of my tennis shoe, pulled up the dirt, and threw it away to my left.  

         The first of many, many such movements.

          I looked up at the men for confirmation that I was doing it right.  I felt idiotic.  

         Dudebro had that big happy gloating smile on his face.  Heinrich looked mostly neutral, but when he saw me staring at him, I could see the muscles around his mouth tighten and knew that he was trying not to laugh. 

      He help up his stopwatch.  “You know, I started this when I told you to make the hole.”  

       Dudebro laughed and nodded.

      I looked down at the earth and commenced shoveling.

      They backed away a few paces–probably so that I wouldn’t be able to hear their conversation–and watched me work.

       I really had no idea what I was doing.  I couldn’t remember the last time I used a shovel for anything.  I told myself not to overthink it, it was just shoveling–the term “ditch-digger” was used as a metaphor for bottom of the employment hierarchy because, supposedly, anyone could do it.  

      It quickly became obvious that I was an inferior ditch-digger, however.  I was too weak to displace a lot of soil, and my movements were not economical, though I did improve a little as I got the hang of it.  The good news was that the earth was pretty soft and there weren’t many stones in it–it looked like this entire plot was used for gardening and had already been turned over many times.  The bad news was that the soil had a lot of moisture in it.  It was heavy. 

       I peeked up at the men to see what they were doing.

      They were watching me and smiling. 

      “You’re going to be out here a long time,” said Dudebro.   Argh, I hated him! 

      I kept digging.  After a little while, they drifted back into the house.  

    The morning wasn’t so cool anymore.  I wasn’t chilly at all.  The breeze felt nice.  I was glad that it was too early in the Spring for the bugs to be out.  A month from now, the bugs would be eating me alive.  

      Mr. White came out to look at me while he drank his morning coffee.  He nodded his head at me but didn’t say anything, so I didn’t speak to him.  After a few minutes, he went back inside. 

      The hole was getting bigger.  How big was this hole supposed to be, again?  And what was I digging it for?

      I popped my head up and eyed the wooden crate by the tree again.  That fucking wooden crate!  What was it for?  It gave me the creeps!

     I stood up and leaned on my shovel, taking a good, long look at that crate.  I wiped the sweat out of my eyes and then saw someone approaching me out of my peripheral vision.  Uh-oh!  Back to work!

     “Getting hot?  Need a break?” 

      It was Dudebro.  Of course, it had to be Dudebro.  That asshole had been riding me like a donkey all morning.

       “No, I’m all right,” I said, not looking up.  Shoveling away.  “I was just wondering–“

      I was suddenly blasted on the back with a high-pressure stream of water.  I screamed as if it was acid.  It shocked me.  I hadn’t seen it coming.

      The water turned off and I looked behind me.  Dudebro was dragging a long green garden hose.  It had one of those pressurized pistol-grip nozzles attached to the end–the kind you use for gardening or washing the car:

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      “You’re all right?  Are you sure?  You don’t sound all right to me,” laughed Dudebro.  He turned the water on me again.  I squealed like a piglet, dropped the shovel, and tried to turn to the side so that the jet of water didn’t get on my chest.  The stream was intense enough to hurt.  

      Dudebro turned the water off.  He was cracking up.

      And he wasn’t the only one.

      The other three had come out onto the porch to watch, and they were cracking up, too.  Even Heinrich, and he is not exactly prone to laff attackz. 

       “You sure scream a lot,” said Dudebro.

        So fucking frustrating and embarrassing!  I felt just like a little kid being picked on by a bunch of jerky boys.  I hated them!  

        Heinrich saw me watching and tapped his wrist.  Reminding me of the time.  

        “That hole’s not going to dig itself,” said Dudebro.

         I pretended that I hadn’t heard him, gathered up the remains of my dignity (WHAT dignity, ha! ha!), and went back to work.  Dudebro retreated back to the house.  

          I had no idea how long I’d been digging–my sense of time was getting distorted.  Probably not too long.  I was getting tired, though, and I noted that my efficiency was decreasing.  The guys went back into the house.  It was me and the hole.  

          I got the theme to Rawhide stuck in my head.  It started to drive me absolutely fucking batshit.

 (Boy, Clint Eastwood was handsome when he was young!)


        I thought briefly of my mother.  My mother gardens a lot.  She would probably be good at this.  She probably knew how to use a shovel right.  

        When was the last time I dug a hole?   I tried to tune down the Rawhide theme in my head and concentrate.  

         When I helped dig a grave for Pepper, the family dog.

         I froze.  My eyes got big.  

         I popped my head up and looked at that crate by the tree. 

         And I was hit, all of a sudden, with a jet of water from the garden hose! 

         I didn’t drop my shovel this time, and after an initial yelp, I didn’t scream, either.  I just froze up and tried to be stoical about it.  

       “You looked like you were getting hot out here, Margo,” said Dudebro.  

       Oh, Dudebro, your zingers have no zing, I thought, but of course I didn’t say that.  Stupid Dudebro!  Even his wit was lame!

        Dudebro didn’t go back into the house right away this time.  He stood there with his big happy smile, as if he was a kid at the fair, and watched me dig.  It was embarrassing.  When I turned my body to the side, he’d try to get the water on my tits, which kind of hurt.  He was doing it on purpose!  Cause he knew that I didn’t like it!

         I wished he would just go in the house and let me work in peace.  The water was making the ground muddy and now I was getting dirt on my shins and on my shackle.  I hate to be dirty. 

        Heinrich and Mr. White wandered down, presumably to check on the progress of the hole.  

         “This is taking longer than I anticipated,” Heinrich said.

          “I keep getting interrupted,” I said, scowling at Dudebro.

          Mr. White winced and shook his head. 

         “I hope you are not making excuses,” said Heinrich.  

          “Of course not.  Sorry, sir,” I said.  Diggin diggin diggin! 

          “That sounded like an excuse,” said Heinrich.

          I kept my eyes down and waited for him to land on me.  I could feel him scrutinizing me.  After about a minute, I felt that he’d decided to let it go.  Whew!  Dodged that bullet!

           Dudebro turned the hose on me again.  Just for a second.

          When he stopped, I glared at him, then looked at Heinrich, and then back at Dudebro.

           Dudebro saw what I was doing, laughed at me, and then turned the hose on again

          I stared at Heinrich.  I was furious.  Are you going to keep letting him do this?  

           Heinrich’s face got tense.  

           I suddenly realized I was in big trouble.  

           “Well?  What do you keep looking at me for?  Hm?  What do you think?  You waiting for big Daddy Heinrich to come downstairs and stop the mean boy?  Is that what you think I am going to do?”

          He moved toward me and, instinctively, I started to back away.  I moved the shovel in front of me to shield myself.  I wasn’t even aware that I was doing it.  

           Dudebro started laughing again.  Over Heinrich’s shoulder, I saw Mr. White shaking his head sadly.  

        “Do you really think I would help you instead of one of my friends?  Do you think that is what I am here to do?”

        He kept advancing.  I kept backing up.  Oh boy.

       I suddenly ran out of chain and was pulled up short.  I stumbled backward and fell flat on my back.  I’m lucky the shovel didn’t hit me in my face.  

       Heinrich stopped a few feet from me.  He didn’t even acknowledge that I’d fallen.  Even Dudebro had done that.  When I pitched backwards, I heard Dudebro yell, “Woah!”

      “He can do whatever he wants to you!”  Heinrich roared down at me.  Then–get this–he pulled his foot back and kicked a wave of dirt over my body.  

       “Now you will have to clean the dirt off my shoes later.  And probably launder the trousers as well.”

        Then he turned on his heel and walked back.

        Because I was soaking wet from the hose, the dirt stuck all over me.  

         I stood up and looked down at myself.

         I was filthy!  It was disgusting!

         I picked up my shovel and hobbled back to my hole.  The chain clinked.  I was reminded of all those movie scenes with chain gangs in them.  Shit.  At least it wasn’t Cool Hand Luke. 

(Git boss’s dirt boy!)

        Of course, Dudebro declined to hose me down after that.

On Call (and Abduction Update)

     I’m on call till midnight at the Studio tonight.  A well-known (and, to be fair, highly regarded) dungeon barnacle expressed an interest in seeing me, so I’m hanging out in my apartment with my cell phone in front of me on my desk. 

       The guy is fairly reliable–he comes in most of the nights (and they are always nights) that he says he will.  He flakes approx. 20% of the time. He sessions so often and tips so well, however, that nobody holds it against him.  

      Shall I tell you what the session is like…?  

     Sure, why not! 

      He brings in all of his own equipment.  Said equipment requires two large duffle bags for transport. 

   He cocoons himself into a rather odd latex bodybag and requests to be blindfolded with his blindfold (he can’t do it himself, obviously).  Then the Mistress places a 24″ long slinky tube in his mouth that looks like a vacuum cleaner attachment.  It probably is a vacuum cleaner attachment.  He holds it in his mouth.

       The Mistress smokes a cigarette (he provide the cigarettes, because he has a favorite brand) and exhales the smoke through the tube into his mouth.

       That’s it.  I kid you not. 

       Yeah, it’s weird as hell, but he tips a few hundred bucks and you don’t have to talk to him (not that I mind talking to clients–I usually interrogate them, if they don’t mind–but keeping up a one-sided dialogue in this context would be very draining).  You can read a book, or Ped-Egg your feet, or surf The Economist website, or ask yourself what the fuck am I doing with my life?  I know that smoking is terribly unhealthy, but nobody is going to get lung cancer from half a pack of cigarettes.  

       Whilst not in the euphoria of his strange bodybag, he is a well-mannered and seemingly educated individual.  Whoever he is, he must be wealthy, because he comes to the Superstudio at least two or three times a week–always very late at night–and I’m willing to bet that when he’s not there, he’s going to other studios in town.  


       On a happier note, Miss Margo’s Abduction Birthday Party should be happening next weekend or the week after.  

       We abandoned the kidnapped-off-the-street idea.  The fantasy is extremely exciting, but there is no way to practically execute it.  

        I’m giving Heinrich the keys to my apartment and my approximate schedule for the next few weeks.  

       He–they–can come over at any time and let themselves in.  He–or they–are going to come in and take me….wherever.  Presumably to the artist studio on Long Island.  ha, ha.  Yeah…that “House in the Country.”  It must have a million dogs and cats on it.     

      Scary scary scary!  Home invasion is a huge scary fear of mine!

       AAAARGGHH! So excited and anxious I can’t see straight.


Snatched Off the Street

    Paltego, owner of Femdom Resource, recently posted a blog entry about (in part) abduction fantasies.  It got me thinking about how much I would like to do an extended kidnapping session.  This, in turn, made me wish that I could somehow arrange for a scene in which I was the person being kidnapped.

     I spent a goodish amount of time yesterday turning the idea over in my mind.  I was enjoying it tremendously, if you know what I mean…wink wink, nudge nudge.  

     Then, about 9 PM last night, I decided: fuck it–I’m going to do it!  Why shouldn’t I?  If I can’t have a boyfriend and love right now, the least I can do is have TONS OF FUN!

       And I knew just the man to give it to me…in town again, for a limited time only…

        I shot off an email to Heinrich outlining my ideas, and then impatiently sent him a text:  Mein Herr!  You have email!  :-D!

         My phone beeped ten minutes later:  I have a friend on Long Island with land and an artist’s studio…not residential, but running water & electricity.  Very private.

        Me: So nobody could hear me scream!

       Heinrich:  You know screaming is not permitted.  How many men?  
       Me: 3 or 4…?

      Now we’re trying to work out the particulars.  I need to tell him precisely what my limits are and what I want to get–or think I want to get–out of this experience.  That part’s easy.  This ain’t my first rodeo.  

      It’s the practical details that are going to prove problematical.  As with client “Ants-in-His-Pants” (as I’ve taken to thinking of him), this scenario presents certain logistical challenges.  My fantasy has certain components to it that simply may not be feasible.  I might have to abandon or modify them.

      First and foremost: how are the guys going to snatch me off the street in New York City, throw me in a van, and drive away?  Especially if they are wearing ski masks?  How is that going to work?  I assume (and perhaps I’m being too generous in my estimation of their compassion and sense of civic duty) that multiple horrified onlookers would take out their phones, snap photos and video, and call the cops…probably in that order too, heh.  Besides the risk of arrest and the awkwardness of trying to explain that one to the cops, it’s just not cool to subject innocent onlookers to that level of stress.  I don’t know about you, but I’d be very upset if I saw someone–especially a girl–get abducted in front of me.  

   I guess we could try to do it in a quiet area at night–like the financial district, where it’s crickets-and-tumbleweeds after 6 PM–but that area is full of security cameras and with my luck, the video would be broadcast on the local late-night news.  Yeah, the Post would love that one.  

     I certainly wouldn’t want all parties involved to end up like this unfortunate couple.  (While I feel badly for them–well, a little bit–they didn’t do it right.  If she was going to be naked in the back seat, the least they should have done is cover her with a blanket or long coat.)

      Second: where are we going to get the other guys?  Heinrich says that he can take care of that part, and while I trust his judgement implicitly (and it would feel more “authentic” if I didn’t know the other persons involved)…the idea of doing this with individuals I have not personally interviewed and vetted strikes me as, well…unwise.  The last thing I need is some asshole taking photos of me and putting them all over Fetlife, or thinking that I agreed to something that I didn’t, or…well, we all know what could happen.  

    Third: I want it to be a surprise…but it can’t be a true surprise, because this requires so much planning and coordination.  People have to get time off work.  If I’m gone for more than 24 hours, I need to arrange care for my animals.  Maybe we could narrow it down to a weekend?

     Fourth: Not too bright to be somewhere “on Long Island” without money, ID, and/or cell phone.  Heinrich is safe, but…

      I will put my mind to this…if any readers have advice or suggestions, I’d love to hear them!